


The Brat in Our Way

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, SHERLOCK IS SUCH A PROBLEM CHILD, old fic dump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:28:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iain wakes up in the middle of the night and finds Greg out of bed, unable to sleep because he’s worried about Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brat in Our Way

Iain hissed as he hobbled across cold tile to the bathroom. He couldn’t sleep. His stomach wouldn’t let him. He’d rolled over, tossed and turned, and fumbled angrily with the blankets for over an hour now — trying to find a comfortable position that would make that nauseous burning tolerable, but there was nothing for it. Eventually he gave up, forced himself out of bed after a short row with the sheet, and cursed his way straight to the medicine cabinet in search of an antacid. 

 

The bathroom window was open. It was Greg’s doing, of course — the asshole. The older DI’s flat had such piss-poor insulation already, but the man was a walking furnace. It could be snowing outside, and he hardly seemed to notice. Iain, on the other hand, was very slight — and found himself worrying about frostbite when he woke up every morning. 

“Tosser,” he muttered under his breath. 

Antacids were absolutely vile — chalky, disgusting tablets that made grape-flavoured cough syrup seem tasty. He chewed through two as quick as he could, swallowing the grainy mess and rinsed his mouth with water from the sink. Shoving the bottle back onto the shelf, he closed the cabinet door and stumbled back towards the bed. 

But somewhat surprisingly — Greg wasn’t there. Iain wondered briefly if he’d woken his boyfriend up with his fit, but Greg’s side of the bed was frosty. If the older man had been there recently, the sheets would still be slightly warm. He could remember more than one occasion where Lestrade had been called in to the office at night over some important arrest, leaving Iain to curl up in the warmth of the vacated space.

Rubbing his eyes, he grabbed his robe from the hook on the bathroom door and wandered into the living room. Sure enough, the grey-haired DI was there, curled up in a thick, leather armchair with a glass of scotch to hand and a half-empty bottle on the table beside him. Iain’s stomach did an unpleasant little flip. He could smell the sour alcohol from the doorway.

“Cold?” Greg asked quietly. His back was to the door where Iain stood, but he’d heard the younger man climb out of bed a few minutes before. 

“Freezing,” Iain admitted, folding his robe over his chest and tucking his hands under his arms.

Tilting his head, Greg glanced backwards, over his shoulder. “Come sit?”

He wanted to — he desperately did, but the smell of scotch was making him nauseous. “Something wrong?” He asked quietly, leaning against the door frame. 

“Nah, I just enjoy getting up at-” Greg paused to check the clock on the mantle. “One in the morning, to have a stiff drink.” There was a distinctly humorous note in his voice, and Iain rolled his eyes. “Just thinking,” he admitted with a small smile.

“About what?”

Greg laughed into his drink, and took another sip. 

What could he say? That despite his best friend’s better judgement, despite his boyfriend’s concerns, he was thinking about Sherlock Holmes? A boy — technically a man, but no one who’d met the self-entitled consulting detective would consciously apply that particular moniker — who was, in every one’s estimation, more bad than good? Hell, Sally was convinced that he was a step away from being a serial killer, and half the Yard agreed with her. 

“Nothing important,” he answered, putting the glass down. “Why’re you up?” 

“Stomach,” Iain answered with a frown. Thankfully, the antacid had started to kick in. He no longer felt like his chest was on fire, and the scotch on the table was hardly noticeable. Pulling away from the hall, he wandered over to Greg’s chair, and nudged his leg.

Greg snorted and reached out, tugging Iain into his lap. The younger man curled up, resting his head against Greg’s shoulder, and buried his toes in the crevice between the cushion and the arm of the chair as Greg wrapped his arms loosely around him.

“Christ, you’re cold,” Greg muttered.

“I told you,” Iain growled, pressing his nose — which felt frozen — firmly against the exposed skin of Greg’s neck. “Shouldn’t have left the bed.”

Greg pulled back just enough to kiss the top of his head, smiling. “Why d’you even put up with me?”

“Because you’re cute.”

“Must be it.” 

But even with Iain in his arms, he couldn’t push away the thoughts that had been plaguing him all night. It was Sherlock — it was always Sherlock, or a case, or something work-related that kept him up at night, drinking scotch in his favourite chair and wondering why he chose not to follow a career in football. He’d still be fit and he’d be moderately wealthy. 

But he’d never have met Iain. He’d never have befriended Sally Donovan. And he might never have known Sherlock Holmes.

“Greg, talk to me.”

He took a deep breath, holding Iain a little tighter.

“Greg.”

He might’ve been able to pass it off as nothing if he’d had a little less to drink. But at that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care that he sounded like a doting, old fool. “Sherlock’s on a case,” he answered — eyes glazed over with thoughts of the boy sneaking around back alleys, playing at being a detective, and in all likelihood, getting himself hurt. He probably wasn’t sleeping, or eating, or taking care of himself at all. 

Greg shifted restlessly. “He’s on a case, by himself. And, I’m sure he’s fine, but… he refuses to accept that he’s human most of the time. He’ll do himself harm if he’s not careful — and he never is. He thinks he’s all brain, that he can just get away with thinking for days on end, and he can’t. He’s brilliant — Christ, Iain. You have to meet this kid, he’s actually a genius.”

Iain’s eyes widened as Greg went on, raving about Sherlock’s skill. He’d heard Greg talk about him before — though never quite so endearingly. Most of the time it was “that brat in our way”, and subsequent muttering — but this concerned affection was new. 

After several minutes, Iain cut him off with a quiet laugh. Greg stopped ranting and leaned back, trying to focus on Iain’s face through the shadows and the inebriated haze. 

“What? What’s funny?”

“You, Greg.”

Greg’s expression soured.

Iain shook his head. “God, you need kids.”

“…what?” 

“Children. Kids of your own, so you don’t go around adopting any more psychopaths.” 

“He’s not a psy-” 

Iain quickly put his hand over Greg’s mouth. “I know,” he admitted. “I know. I was joking.” 

Greg sloppily licked the inside of his palm. 

“Gross, Greg!” Iain jerked his hand back like he’d been electrocuted. “I take it back,” he remitted, wiping his hand off on the other man’s pyjama pants. “You’re a gigantic five year old.” 

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, hugging Iain tightly and nuzzling him like he was some kind of floppy toy bear. “Just a bit. Anyway, I’ve got my niece and nephew.” 

“But they already have a father.” 

Greg didn’t reply. It was true. Danny and Charlotte — his sister’s kids — already had two, very loving and devoted parents. Apart from a brother that Sherlock actively ignored, he was certain Sherlock was completely alone. 

“You need kids of your own to worry about. For you to be a toddler with.” 

Rolling his head to the side, Greg fixed his gaze on Iain, giving him his best needy puppy impression. “Going to have them for me, are you?” 

Iain snorted and covered his face with his hand — only to jerk it back again as he remembered Greg had recently slobbered on it. “No, fuck off.”

Greg pressed his face in against Iain’s neck, smiling wickedly. “Only if you help me.”

“Oh, for god’s s-,” Iain struggled to push away from him. “Come back to bed.” 

The older man shook his head. “Can’t.” 

“Why not?”

“Gonna go check up on Sherlock,” he answered quietly.

“Greg, you’re sloshed. And it’s almost two in the morning. You can go see him tomorrow.” 

He shook his head again. “He won’t be sleeping. Not with a case on.” Letting go of Iain, he straightened up and stretched his arms out to the sides. “I’ll take a cab over, make sure he’s at least breathing, and get back in an hour or so.” 

Iain sighed. He wanted to go back to bed — preferably with his boyfriend and personal space heater in tow. It seemed a fool’s errand to let Greg go out now, but he could be more stubborn than a bulldog when he made a decision about something, and judging by the look in his eyes — he was utterly decided. 

“…if you’re sure,” he relented. 

Greg cupped his jaw gently, and kissed him. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.” 

He sighed again — dramatically, and with more exaggeration. “Fine.” Retracting his feet from their warm, little nest, Iain stood up. “I’m going back to sleep. You’d better be there when I wake up.” 

Grinning, Greg slid his hand up the back of the younger man’s leg. “You know I will.” 

Iain glared over his shoulder as he retreated to the bedroom. Greg Lestrade was a lecherous menace on his good days — never mind when he’d been drinking. “At least put on real trousers before you go,” he called out.

“Yes, mother,” Greg answered, laughing. Hauling himself out of the chair, he hunted down a pair of loose jeans. If Iain hadn’t reminded him, he’d have walked straight out of the flat as he was, in pyjamas, and probably without a coat. He scooped up his wallet and keys after trading his sleepwear for casual clothes and stopped at the door of their bedroom. 

“Night, love.”

Iain mumbled a reply, already half-asleep. 

With a soft smile, Greg zipped up his coat and left.


End file.
